Cauliflower - The Best Veg On The Table .... And A Poll

(Photograph copyright 2010, all rights reserved.)

This post is in response to quite a few requests for the recipe for my favorite favoritist cauliflower recipe. I LOVE this dish. So does everyone else that tries it. It's a little fiddly to make, but it's so good, you won't care.

I got the original from the The New York Times over a year ago. I make it a little differently, in the interest of faster cooking, but it's essentially the same recipe.

(To the writer - please accept my humble and grovelling apologies for changing your recipe. It's wonderful, and it deserves to be spread around a bit more, don't you think? I promise that I am not a professional cook or in any way making a nickel from what I write.)

Here goes.

Cauliflower with Almonds, Capers and Raisins


Preheat oven to 350 degrees F.

1 medium head of cauliflower, washed, trimmed and cut into 1" (or so) florets
1 1/2 teaspoons butter

Set aside.

3 tablespoons bread crumbs (I use panko, and a little more than this)
1 tablespoon + 1 teaspoon olive oil

In a large oven proof pan (I use cast iron pan for this), saute the bread crumbs in the olive oil until lightly browned. Remove from pan, set aside, then wipe out pan with a paper towel.

3 tablespoons slivered raw almonds
Salt and pepper to taste

Add the almonds and s & p to the pan and brown. Set aside and wipe the pan as before.

2 tablespoons golden raisins
1 tablespoon white wine vinegar (or champagne vinegar if you like it better.)
1 teaspoon water
1 tablespoon of capers, drained
1 teaspoon fresh parsley, minced
1 teaspoon fresh thyme, minced
1 teaspoon fresh tarragon, minced
1 teaspoon chives, chopped fine

In a small saucepan, simmer these ingredients until the raisins are plump and soft. Set aside.

(I don't always have fresh herbs on hand. I've substituted a little minced shallot for the chives, and used dried herbs instead of fresh to fill in what I don't have. It still works, but the flavor is not as intense. Use your judgment, and pick the flavors you like best to concentrate on.)

Now....the fun part.

Saute the cauliflower with the butter in your big pan until slightly browned. Put the whole pan in the oven, and roast until the cauliflower is tender-crisp.

When the cauliflower is done, put it into a large bowl and add almonds, raisin mixture and lastly the bread crumbs.

The original recipe calls for the head of cauliflower to be sliced rather than separated into florets. As far as I can tell, this would mean browning each slice on both sides and then putting it into the oven which would mean a whole lot more work in the end. I freely admit I'm a short-cut goddess in the kitchen. Separating the head of cauliflower into florets means less time cooking and it's easier to serve family-style.

Most cauliflower recipes call for massive amounts of cream or cheese. I think those are far too heavy to be served at a big meal like Thanksgiving or Christmas. There's enough going on on the table without adding something that's going to hit everyone's stomach with a thud. The other down side is that those recipes completely disguise any flavor the cauliflower has of it's own - and it has a nice one.

Need I mention that this has FAR fewer calories and MUCH less fat than the standard gratin?

Yum.

Now, I posted this in response to Pooham's poll on Slate. She asked everyone for their favorite side dish for Thanksgiving dinner. Pooham, I hope you don't mind, but let's ask the same question here.

So give, everyone: What is your favorite side dish for any holiday dinner?

Open Call Response to Jonathan Wolfman

For those of you who are reading this on The Fly , this is a response to an open call for responses from a poster named Jonathan Wolfman. His question is: "What is your gift? What do you do with it?"

Anyone who wants to respond to me on blogspot is, of course, more than welcome. In fact, I happily extend the question to all the Fraysters who want to answer it. I'll post the link on Salon, too, in case anyone there is interested. This is going to be fun.

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The only answer I have is ..... ready? I make stuff. I'm good with my hands. Doesn't sound like much, does it? I mean, a LOT of people are fairly adept at doing things, of putting things together, repairing things and the like. 

It's hard to explain what I mean. I see in three dimensions. I'll never make a painter or be able to draw well. I've tried, and it's utterly futile. I'm foul at math. It's like a foreign language to me. I can't picture it, and that crippled me all the way through school. In fact, my math teacher in Grade 12 gave me a mercy mark just so I could get into university, then made me promise to take geography as my science option. I did.

That still isn't very clear, is it? The thing is, it's a maddeningly ephemeral thing. If you gave me a bag of clay, I could build you what I want you to see. If you hand me a pen and paper, forget it. Whatever I put there won't make a lick of sense. I'm sure there's a deeply complicated explanation for it that delves into brain chemistry, genetics, upbringing, whether I had pets as a kid, and whether or not the water was fluoridated when I was born (it wasn't), but that's just the way it is. 

What I do is clay. Clay makes sense to me. It's something I can manipulate - I can make it do what I want it to. When I'm working on something at the clay lab, I zone out completely, sometimes for hours. All I need is my IPod, a bucket of water, some tools and a bag of clay and you can count on me being occupied for as long as it takes for me to either finish a piece or realize that I've missed lunch and I'm damned hungry. Thankfully I have some friends that are brave enough (I get VERY cranky when I'm hungry) to smack me on the shoulder and make me take a break.

Don't get me wrong. It's not easy. As with any art form, there's a massive learning curve. I've been at this for ten years and I'm still learning. I suspect I'll be learning for the rest of my life, which is both maddening and reassuring. It means I'll never lose interest.

There are people who say that working with clay is all about chemistry and physics. Ok. I get that. Clay bodies vary, glazes are incredibly complicated and highly experimental and I know I'll never have the patience to make my own. That's because these folks are all about the mechanics. You can recognize most of them because everything they make is perfect. It is symmetrical. It's usually thrown on a wheel. A whole lot of people make decent money doing this - it's their job. Their work sells because it's generally pretty nice, it's always recognizable and it has a use. 

What I do doesn't have a use. In fact, it's utterly useless. I do this on purpose. I figure that if I wanted a bunch of identical plates, I can get them at Crate and Barrel for a lot less money and a ton less angst than trying to make them myself. I get bored very easily, and if what I make became mechanical or mindless to me, I'd quit. I wouldn't see the point any more. 

 I've never made the same piece twice and if I tried, I probably couldn't do it. That's just the way it is. I work with my hands, not with machines. I don't want to master the clay that way. There are things I'm very good at. Sales, for example. I've been pretty successful at selling just about anything in the past, from couture gowns to nails. It's easy for me - I've been told I'm a "natural", whatever the heck that is. It bores me stiff, though. I had to quit because I just can't muster the energy to care about something I've got whipped.

I've posted a few of my Utterly Useless Pots. They don't hold water - and that's on purpose. I don't want them to have a function. I don't want anyone to hold on in their hands and think "vase", for instance. Other people make better vases than me, to be truthful. My first instructor was Larry Fleck. He always used to ask me what things were FOR. My stock answer became, "Larry, it just IS."

Utterly Useless Pot. 12" tall, 8" across. Copyright 2010, all rights reserved. 

High fired stoneware. The glaze is temoku wiped off, then dipped in yellow salt.

Utterly Useless Pot. 15" tall, 37" diameter. Copyright 2010, all rights reserved.

Low fire terracotta with matte black underglaze, matte gray glaze on top. It looks very different, depending on what side you're looking at, which I think is pretty cool.

Utterly Useless Pot. 8" tall, 7" across. Copyright 2010, all rights reserved.

High fired white stoneware glazed with red iron oxide, yellow salt and temoku.

For those who swore they've seen these pictures before....you're right. I've posted them before. I KNOW I have to get on with taking more photos. It's just so much more fun to be in the studio, don't you know.

The above pots are three in a series, and I'm off on another series now. I find that when I find a shape that makes me happy, I play with it for awhile. I want to see where it can go, so I mess with it on different pieces and with different glazes for awhile. It took me six pieces to finish with this one. There's another one that I haven't photographed that's just massive. It's in white with black accents and I have to look at it for awhile because I'm not altogether sure about the glaze.

These are for sale, by the way. If you're interested, you can reach me at onemessylady@gmail.com .

I know where I get this. I come from a long line of carpenters, farmers, harness-makers, boat builders and other craftspeople. If I could go back far enough (and I can't, really), I'm sure that there are "handy" people in my gene pool that go back for centuries. No artists, though. Most of the family are pragmatic and rather gloomy types that would never do something that doesn't have a "use".

There are other things I can do. The handiness is most useful. I sew, for example. For the last couple of years I've been making my own wool coats. I like summer dresses, and when I make them, I know they'll fit. I love being able to wear something that I won't be seeing walking down the street all over the place.

I can also replace taps, install light fixtures, repair tile, and paint interiors. These are all survivor skills that I think everyone should learn, but that's because I'm kind of a tightwad.

Apropos of Nothing.

(Photograph copyright 2010, all rights reserved. This is an all-vegan, all the time image. See? Tomato. Vegan. I can't even see any bugs. Just sayin'.)

I've been seeing something in grocery stores - ok, pretty much Whole Foods - that's got me a little puzzled. I know that labels sell products. Heck, I even used to collect the wrappers that used to be on the occasional blood orange or mandarin. If there was an interesting label, that's all I was interested in when it came to choosing the fruit for the week. I admit it. I'm as big a sucker as anyone else. I still have a file with those labels in it.

(Disclaimer: This post is in no way a criticism of Whole Foods, their suppliers, or their employees. I just shop there, so that's where I see the odd stuff. It could be ANY grocery store.)

I know that "organic", for example is not only kinda nice to see in our grocery stores, it's also a marketing strategy that's a guaranteed money maker for the producer. Hell, I'd use it too, if I were in their position. Why go organic at all unless you want to make some money based on the label? Money is a good thing.

But, lately the label reading "Vegan" is what I'm seeing, and it's got me bemused. How, I wondered, could someone actually BE a vegan and not know what they can and can't eat? After all, being a vegan is hard work. Research is required to get the right amounts of protein and nutrients in their diets. Reading is required. Cookbooks must be bought, websites consulted, buzzwords memorized, sermons written, disapproving glares perfected.... This is Serious Stuff.

(I have to interject here. I'm not a vegan. I'm not even a vegetarian. I happen to think that the domestic swine should be the most exalted animal on this planet based on sheer tastiness and versatility. You can eat pretty much the whole pig except the squeal, and it's all delicious. I think this is a Good Thing. I have no interest in changing my ways, and I'm not going to argue about it. It just is.)

What led to this speculation? About a month ago, there were two ladies in the baking supplies aisle of Whole Foods earnestly debating the differences between two bags of sugar. One was labelled "Vegan", one was not. I admit I stopped to listen. I do that. Anyone who doesn't is fibbing. The younger of the two was determined that she was going to buy the vegan version. The older one asked, "What's in sugar that makes it NON-vegan to start with?"

The younger lady was really getting angry about this. That label was becoming crucial to her well-being. Then her friend pointed out that the sugar with the "Vegan" label was CHEAPER than the organic sugar from the same company and was in a virtually identical bag. In fact, they were side-by-side on the shelf. Why the price difference? I read the labels afterward. The sugar labelled "Vegan" wasn't organic.

I left, pondering the logic of this and knowing that since these thing aren't based on logic, I was unlikely to get any sort of answer. I told The Boy about it when he got home that week, and asked what he thought of the situation and he said, "You know these things aren't based on logic. I think you might have too much time on your hands. Did you remember to get the Humboldt Fog?"

Fine. I left it alone. I had stuff to do anyway..... like remembering to put the damned Humboldt Fog on the next week's grocery list. Then remembering the list.

The following week, I went back to Whole Foods (I DID remember the list, I just left it in the car. I got the cheese, but forgot the lamb shoulder. Sigh.) Naturally, just walking in the door got me thinking about the "Vegan" label again, so I started seeing the bloody thing everywhere I turned. A partial list, and yes, WTF? should be after every item.

1. Maple Syrup.
2. A spice mix for the barbecue.
3. Flour.
4. Bread. (Good bread has three ingredients. Flour, water, yeast. It ain't rocket science. Oh wait...how can yeast be vegan? It's alive. I'm confused.)
5. Pasta.
6. Ketchup.
7. Tomato Paste. (Which had salt and guar gum added. The kind I buy has one ingredient on the label. That would be "tomatoes".)

You see what I mean? It's everywhere. These are only a few things. I already knew that there was a product called "Vegan Worcestershire Sauce". For those that don't know, Worcestershire Sauce has as its main ingredient fermented fish. It's the fish sauce of the western world and it's a crucial product in most kitchens. I tried the vegan stuff once when they ran out of Lea and Perrin's. Big mistake. It was mostly MSG (a vegan product from the sea) and it STILL tasted sweetish and nasty. Altogether a waste of $4.99. I dumped it down the drain. Probably it killed a few fish.

Now, I can see the need for the label on, say, cookies. I make mine with butter, a vegan no-no. Baked goods are complicated, so fair enough. But MAPLE SYRUP?! Really? What could be more vegan? Or sacred to Canadians, wherever they live? You stick a tap in a tree and boil down what comes out until it's...syrup. Maple syrup in fact. Where are the animals in that? I guess some producers still use sleds with horses in Quebec, but the horses are all right with that. I asked one once, just to make sure.

On that trip, I left the store thinking I just had to write a post about this. Clearly Western Civilization needs to ponder this. Naturally, I procrastinated. Another week passed. Back I went to Whole Foods. I DID write a list, put it in my pocket and consulted it in the store. What was on it? Hmmm. Milk, eggs, yogurt (gotta get the kind with no pectin or the cat won't touch it), crunchy bits, snack items.....a couple of other things. And yes, I actually wrote "crunchy bits". Then when I got to the store, all smug about having the list in hand, I kicked myself for trying to write a list before I was fully caffeinated that morning. The basket was VERY full on my way out that week. That's what I get for being vague.

I was thinking about this and other, weirder things, as I walked the aisle, filling my cart with snack items and crunchy bits. I was still thinking about it when I ran into one of the store clerks. He's a nice kid and very helpful. He's hunted things down for me in the past. So I asked him, "What's with the vegan sugar? ALL sugar is vegan!"

"No it's not," he said, "Didn't you know that?"

"Um, dude, sugar is a plant. If it's not cane, it's usually beets. Or is there some special way to eliminate the bug parts?"

He got a very serious look on his face. "It's the way it's made. When they cut the sugar cane, they put it on a big floor and pound it with cow bones before they put it in the crusher."

I looked at him, "Are you serious? Really? Because I've BEEN to a couple of sugar plants and they're just big steel buildings with big steel machines."

No way. He wasn't buying that. He looked at me like I'd gone off my rocker and went to find brown rice pasta (yuck) for another customer (bet it had the "Vegan" label on it).

So here I have to cry bullshit and ask where in blazes THAT rumor started? Cow bones? What the hell is that all about? Who says something that moronic? Worse, is there something in the vegan diet that makes people believe stupid things? Is that a requirement or is it part of the buzzword memorization?

I had a friend when I was about five who sincerely believed that if she didn't cover her mouth when a dragonfly went past, it would sew her mouth shut. I knew a girl in high school (not the brightest penny in the till) who sincerely believed that not only could you GET pregnant from a toilet seat, it happened all the time. She believed that even AFTER she got pregnant in Grade 11. I still look for the occasional four leaf clover. Until she died, my great-grandmother firmly believed that if she used a curse word, then said part of the rosary, God would be all right with the bad language.

The sugar thing I don't get. I've always, based on the preaching I hear all the time, firmly believed that veganism was more a religion than a lifestyle choice. Many vegans, especially professional vegans, sound more like evangelists than health mavens to me. Having heard the twaddle about sugar, I have to wonder just how many other idiotic superstitions are out there.

I'm going to start some of my own.

1. Ooooh, did you hear? Every time someone butters their toast with real butter, a robin dies.

2. It's a scientific fact that if you eat pork, you'll get a little curly tail. Doctors cut them off all the time without telling their patients about it.

3. Did you know that regular gasoline has cow fat in it?

4. Refrigerator factories use live mice to test the seals. They put a mouse into each fridge and time how long it takes for it to die.

5.  Steel factories use baby pig and dolphin blood to make the steel stronger.

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Can anyone out there come up with any more? I want to see how long it takes for someone to tell me one of these things that BELIEVES it!


(Ok, I just read online that some sugar processors, when sourcing the activated carbon that is used as a filter, buy it from companies that use bones to make the char. Fair enough. I guess that's not vegan. I STILL want to know where the hell that kid got the idea that beating cane with cow bones is something that any manufacturer would bother with. I also want to know why  it's a bad thing to use cow bones, a byproduct of the beef processing industry, to make char? Would the bones be better off in a landfill?)

Now...for the rant!

(Photograph copyright 2010, all rights reserved.)

Now to that rant I promised yesterday and didn't deliver... Except I can't do it. Not the way I planned, anyway. I can tell you a story. Let's see how that goes instead.

For the past four days, I've been trying to give money to Steve Jobs. And what a job that's been! I've never had so much hassle and kerfuffle trying to get someone to take money from me. It's a nightmare.

So, the back story is this. The Boy (That would be my husband, a nickname I shamelessly stole from Christie Blatchford which is another long story altogether.) never buys things for himself. Hardly ever, anyway. It's not that he can't afford to spend money on himself, he just doesn't do it. For example, he gets his jeans and polo shirts from Land's End. Overstocks. Work clothes he'll buy when he needs to and he doesn't skimp, but just for his own pleasure, not so much.

This means that I was overjoyed when I finally heard him express a wish to purchase something! It's rare. When it happens, I make every effort possible to make this easier for him. See, he hates shopping. No one could ever make him set foot in a mall even at gunpoint. Heck, even if someone had ME at gunpoint, he might think twice. Going to any store is something that he sees as a cubic waste of time.

Driving with him is a hideous experience. Parking, especially when he sees the rates, makes him bananas. Actually going in to a store? About 90% of the time, forget it. He'll stand outside with his hands behind his back, looking like the Secret Service. He does, too. Especially when he's got that leather jacket/beret combo going. Hubba hubba.

So. A few months ago, he expressed an interest in an IPad. Even though he's a PC guy, he figured the IPad would be a nifty way to read magazines and whatnot while he was traveling (which he does every week). Also, he then wouldn't have to do his shopping on the company computer - even though the company doesn't care about that. He just doesn't think they need to know about his new acid-green chair. Whatever. It sounded like a good idea to me.

He decided to wait. It takes awhile for Apple to get it right sometimes, so this made sense to me. When the time came, he decided to take the leap. He decided that he wanted the 32G wi fi only IPad. NOW. That's right. In 21 years of working for the firm, he has never owned his computer. It's never been an issue. On this, he had to have the machine immediately. Bless the lad, I can see his point.

So. We decided to go to an Apple store and just buy the blasted thing. Saturday, after we went to the Farmer's Market and then the gym, we showered, had a snack and set out. I decided to go to the store in suburbopurgatory because the parking is free, which would supposedly make him a little happier. I called the store before we embarked, they said they had what we wanted in stock, and we left.

It took 40 minutes to get there. This was not fun. All the way there, and keep in mind that we're dealing with a 40-nevermind-year-old guy, he was muttering: Are we there yet? Jesus Christ, YOU RAN A YELLOW! You're going to get us killed! Killed! You're driving like a bat out of Hades, woman! Oh dear Gawd. How the hell long does this drive take, anyway? What? How long has that construction been there? Do you come this way often? Well, I can see where that future suspension repair is going to come from! Oh Geez! Now we're in the suburbs! Yuck. I'm getting hives!

I was serene. I am long since used to this nonsense. Since he doesn't enjoy driving himself, I do it and while I've yet to follow through, he knows that if the whining gets to be too much, he can walk home. That is, there's a limit, he just hasn't quite hit it yet. Generally, when we leave the house he has no keys with him (Why should he? I have them, right?), so he settles down eventually. Faster even, when he realizes that he forgot his wallet, too.

So. 40 minutes for the drive. Five minutes to walk to the Apple Store so I could have the following conversation:

"Hi," I said, speaking to the kid at the door, "We're here to buy an IPad."

"Do you have an appointment?" she said.

"No. Can't I just go to the desk, get one, pay for it and leave?"

"Oh no. You have to talk to a salesperson. There's a 30 minute wait. You should have made an appointment. No one can speak to you now."

Can you see where this is going? The Boy heard the part about waiting and headed for the door. I caught him, found a guy in an Apple shirt wandering around, cornered him and told him what I was after. He wasn't thrilled about it, but he went in the back room.

"Sorry," he mumbled, "They aren't in stock. We probably won't see any for a couple of weeks."

"What is this, IKEA? (We all know IKEA is just Swedish for 'It's out of stock.')" I was getting testy, what with The Boy heading for the door and the thought that whoever I spoke to had told me that they WERE in stock, in fact that they had lots of them. The idea of hanging around waiting for a 12-year-old salesperson for half an hour didn't thrill me either. Not to mention the 40-minute drive in 90 degree heat.

"I don't know who told you that. We've been out of those for days."

"Doesn't Best Buy have them?"

"Yes."

"Do you know which ones have got them?

"No, and I'm not allowed to phone and find out."

So we left. The Boy was surly about it, but there's a Best Buy across the street from the Apple Store, so I figured we could ask there. A slap-happy optimist, that's me! They didn't have one.

*And here I have to insert something of an apology to Best Buy. I have long complained about the staff and their terrible attitude, especially to female customers. I have learned the way to navigate there, and I'll share it. Don't wander around the store. Go to the greeter at the front, smile and ask if they can find out if what you want is in the store. They're happy to do it. In fact, when they don't have something, they'll even phone around and find out if another store has it. This time they only thing they could do is tell me to check another store that happened to be on our critical path homeward.*

We checked a second Best Buy store and they couldn't help us either, but the guy did find out that the store that stocks IPads is so far on the other end of the city that it isn't worth the drive. It's PAST the downtown Apple Store by another 20 minutes in the car.

So we went home. The Boy was disappointed. After all, we had spent half a day TRYING to spend six hundred bucks. Being thwarted is a powerful thing. Emotions were running high. We went for a walk, stopped at our local for a beer, and determined that we would just order it online. We did just that. We felt better. Ok, I had a hip cramp from all the damned driving and he was still vibrating even AFTER I told him that the truck had been at least 30 feet away when I made that left..... ok, maybe ten.

Sunday morning rolled around. The sun was shining. The world continued to rotate. Everyone in the house was still breathing. A good day. We made another trip to the gym, (That foie gras isn't free any more. We have to earn it.) got home, make breakfast and commence to check e-mail.

"Oh shit-bugger-damn, those assholes!" The Boy trumpeted, "That is the absolute goddamned limit! I'm done! I quit! I'm going to order an HP web thingamie right now!"

He was clearly still reeling from the drive. I had no idea he was so traumatized. I poured a little coffee into him and made sure he was eating. Also, he isn't a patient soul at the best of times, and he was being tested severely by that point. Frankly, I'm surprised it took him that long to bust out the bad language. It turns out that the IPad we ordered wouldn't be shipped until the end of the month, but we were guaranteed to get it......right about the time we're going to be out of town for a week.

Now I was getting pissed. I had picked up on the psychosis and decided that dammit, I was going to get him the blasted machine no matter what! I suspect this is similar to parents who are desperately determined to get the hottest new toy for their kids at Christmas. Whatever. I was DAMNED if he wasn't going to get what he wanted within the next 48 hours.

First, I went to the web site. No dice. I couldn't open the invoice, even by signing in on my account (they make you have an account, even if you only spend fifty cents on a piece of string there). I had no choice. I phoned Apple. This takes time. To find the phone number, you have to spend about half an hour online. That's how many hoops you have to jump through.

Once you have the number and dial it, a perky male voice comes on, informs you that it can handle any question you have (yeah, right) and you have to say "operator" a dozen or so times while it runs through the entire call menu three times. No shit. This is the way it works. The machine switches you towards a human, after telling you (no matter what time of day it is or even what day) that they are "experiencing higher-than-average call volumes and you'll have to suck it up and wait...unless you want to go back to Automated Guy.

I got a human. Here's the conversation:

"This is Cedric (I'm making that up), how may I give you excellent customer service today?"

"Hello Cedric, I need help with an online order. Can you access order number (13 digits plus letters) for me?"

"Well Mrs. -----, I can't do that from here. I can send you back to the automated service, though..."

"NO!!! Gawd NO! Please no! Can you just transfer me to..."

"I'll transfer you to sales, ma'am."

(There was clicking on the line. Lots of clicking. And Musak. From Dr. Zhivago. Fitting. Something that sounds like half a dial tone. Then another voice.)

"Hello Mrs. ----. This is Tina (I'm making her name up, too). How may I give you excellent customer service today?"

"Tina! So glad to hear a voice...any voice (I was starting to sound a little unhinged, but I think she's used to that), can you access Order number....."

"Yes, ma'am! Here it is! It's going to be delivered August __."

"Er, Tina, we're going to be out of town. Can we change the shipping to overnight? That way we'll get it before..."

"I'm sorry ma'am, we can only do that if you cancel your order and reorder."

"Ok, let's do that. Right now. The same credit card..."

"I'm sorry ma'am, you have to do that online. You can cancel the order with me, though."

At this point, I'm shaking and on the verge of a nervous breakdown, "Tina," I say in gentle, dulcet tones, "Honey, I'm trying hard to give you folks money here, and I just can't seem to do it. Can you at least tell me if that thing is in stock?"

"Oh no ma'am! If you re-order now, you'll lose your place in the line and it'll be September before we can ship it. And I'm not allowed to tell you if an item is in stock."

"Fine," I muttered softly while humming a Ramones tune and clicking a pen on my teeth, "just please cancel the order."

I hung up and The Boy spared me a pitying glance before returning to his newspaper. We've had the "why on earth do you think they'd help with anything" conversation many times. I live in hope, but it's really the triumph of hope over experience.

We read the papers, I baked a cake, we started to prep dinner, there were cocktails. Things were looking up. Naturally, I had a brainwave. The downtown Apple store was going to close at five, and it was ten to five. I stopped everything, and reeking of onions and gin, ran to the phone.

Someone actually answered. This is a minor miracle. When you phone an actual Apple location, the phone system ALWAYS tries to send you to the national call center. That way lies madness, because if you do push the wrong button, you'll be told that they can't give you the phone number to any store AND they can't transfer you.

"This is Dillon (another made-up name), can I help you?"

This voice sounded kind of cranky. I was reassured in a way. It sounded as if the artificial perky had worn off.

"Dillon. Do you have the 32 gig IPad wi fi in stock?"

"No. No one has that one in stock. Nowhere in the country is THAT MACHINE.... *puff puff* in stock. We have the 64 gig version here."

"Great, here's my credit card number, put one on hold and I'll get it first thing in the morning."

"Ma'am. No. We aren't allowed to do that. No holds, not for anyone, not ever."

"Ok, then just pay for the thing..."

"NO! *long shuddering sigh* I mean no. We need to take an imprint of your credit card."

Ask yourself, people. When was the last time anyone ever took an imprint of your card? I smelled bullshit.

"Fine. I'll be in first thing in the morning." I hung up.

This morning, I was at the store less than five minutes after it opened. I walked over to the cash desk in a purposeful manner, asked for the 64 gig whatsit and waited. She looked for a millisecond as if she were going to ask if I had an appointment, so I said, "Listen, kid. No appointment. Just a credit card. Do. You. Have. The. Machine."

She turned and looked for it. For a second, it looked like she was going to say something, but found the cabinet empty, shivered for a second, opened another door and found the thing. On a pile. Beside ANOTHER pile of the same device, the one that whatshisname couldn't even tell me if the had or not, but could certainly never put on hold..... that had cards labelled "Hold for..." on them taped to the boxes.

I rallied. I paid for the IPad. Told the very nice cashier what I'd been told the day before and also told her that her company wasn't doing her or any of the other staff any favors.

--------------------- --------------------------- ---------------------

That was the adventure of my weekend. It sucked. I was going to write a profanity-laced rant at Apple, at the lousy service, at the crappy set-up they have going, about the shit customer service...but then I had a think as I was driving home this morning. (Parking downtown for 36 minutes, $17.00. Worth every nickel.) There was very loud music (Smashmouth. Fush Yu Mang, their best disc.) on the CD player. It's calming.

See, the people that work at Apple are terrific. They are smart young people. They know their stuff. They are extremely well trained and they honestly and sincerely do their best to help their customers. They're nice. Honestly and without any qualifiers, these are nice people trying to do a good job. NOTHING in the surreal journey that I had to go through to buy a one pound piece of cool technology was their fault. NONE OF IT.

This is what I think it's about.

It's all about a sales strategy that pretends to be as cool as a 70s night club. They deny access. They abuse their customers because they are laboring under the delusion that the customers want to be treated like crap. It doesn't matter if you have the money to spend, you have to wait in line. You can spend half a day and a tank of gas to spend your money there and they don't care. They have actually convinced a whole lot of people that this is cool! It's working for them.

Sadly, when someone like, say The Boy, just wants to buy and go home to play with his purchase, he's not allowed do it. He's like an increasing number of their customers. He has money and he wants to spend it with the minimum of hassle. He doesn't give a rat's behind if he's supposed to think waiting around for a commodity product to be handed to him is "cool". He's past all that crap.

Like he says, after all the years he's spent working, "I AM The Man."

Is this all an elaborate upsell? I ended up spending a hundred bucks more than I planned just to avoid going through this process again. Think about it. I'll grant you that I could have got stubborn and decided to wait. I'm generally pretty tight-fisted when it comes to overspending. This was too much for me, though. I paid a hundred bucks to escape. I wonder how many other people do the same?

It's too bad, really. I LIKE Apple products. We both have IPods. We like them. I'm writing this on my MacBook. I like it a lot. I've got a couple of IPhones on order (and do NOT get me going on how "cooperative" AT&T is, please), and they're going to be fun. I know that.

I can't help feeling as if we've been taken, though. I wonder if Mr. Jobs, safe from the scrutiny of actual people in his sterile lair, understands exactly how pissed off people are getting? I wonder if he understands how unfair he's being to his sales staff, because they're the ones who have to deal with customers...like me. Frustrated people. Unhappy people.

Do you think he's paying them enough to deal with that?

A Rant.

(Photograph copyright 2010, all rights reserved.)

Can't rant right now. Still too angry. You'll hear it all after I have a couple of cocktails, I promise.

Happy Canada Day!

Yes kids, it's Canada Day! I know it's also the Fourth of July long weekend, but since I am Canadian (for the next couple of weeks, anyway), I feel compelled to bring to you images from your Neighbor To The North. Also America's largest trading partner.

We Canadians are notorious/famous for our sense of humor, our maple syrup, poutine, media figures (Peter Jennings, Pamela Anderson, Wayne Gretzky, John Candy and a whole bunch of others, anyone?), outstanding scenery, oil, gas, um.... and a whole bunch of other stuff that drives some Americans around the bend.

For those of you who ARE Canadian and living here in the States, for the next couple of days, say words like house, louse, and mouse a lot. People either think the way we say those things is "cute" or they go slightly batty. Try it! It's fun!

So here you go. I give you this song and a few photos for the day.

No matter where you are, have a terrific long weekend!

Coastal Rain Forest, Vancouver Island.

This might LOOK like simple graffiti, but it's actually a remnant of the big fight over legalizing marijuana country-wide. Medical marijuana IS actually legal, but that doesn't mean a whole lot yet.

Queen's Park, Toronto. Yes, it's a government building which is not so very exciting, but it was a pretty day, so why not?

The east coast of Vancouver Island. I took this picture at a wharf just before we went into the fish shop to get crabs and oysters for dinner. YUMMY! And no oil spill, either! (Just sayin'.)

(All photographs copyright 2010, all rights reserved.)

Father's Day

(Photograph copyright 2010, all rights reserved)

I think I've written on this topic once before. If I have, then you can stop reading right now. I won't mind. If you think I'm tiresome on the subject, then go ahead and tell me, I'll feel free to ignore that.

Every year around both Father's and/or Mother's Day, there are glowing tributes all over the place written by people who truly adored their parents. Some of them head directly into what I like to call "The Land of Smarm" because NO ONE is that wonderful. Make no mistake. I've met and know a lot of genuinely wonderful people of both genders and all I can say is that not one of them is as wonderful as hindsight seems to make the parents of some writers. There are, after all, no perfect humans.

I know that it's tempting to editorialize the lives of people who have died. Turning dead people into saints is common and has been for who knows how long. It's natural not to want to dwell on the down side. No one wants to know after the fact that good, kind Uncle Freddy who loved puppies and kittens and gave a fortune to children's charities was screwing his secretary(ies) for the entire length of his 48 year marriage. And managed to knock them up. Or that Auntie Jillian was a compulsive gambler who went bankrupt four times and left her kids alone in the house while she went to win it all back. Families don't talk about these things while the people in question are alive - after they die, all of the nastiness is erased from discussion altogether (at least where other relatives can hear it).

But, and here's where so many people are going to declare me evil and rotten, what if there is no up side? What if the LAST thing someone wants to do on Father's Day is listen to someone blither on about how "special" and "important" all fathers are, and how they're all just fantastic human beings who deserve a day of worship all of their own?

See, there were many, many years when the very thought that I might have to participate in some celebration that would involve my father made me nauseous. I felt ill at the thought that I would have to sit through a dinner where I would be expected to make nice to my father. I distinctly remember being in Grade Three or Four and being made to sit in the hall for an hour because I flatly refused to make a glittery card for my father. I just could not do it.

The man was a rat bastard. He was scum. He was living proof that even violent, verbally abusive (yet stony sober at all times) scum do indeed reproduce. When he died by his own hand in 1997, I was relieved. Those of you who adore all of your relatives can't relate, I'm sure. Save it. Believe me, I've heard the line, "But he's your faaaaaaaaaaaaaather, you have to love your faaaaaaaaaaaaaather" all my life. And no, I don't. I do remember lying awake at night wishing he would die in a flaming car wreck on his way home from work.

Here's the kicker. I'm not the only one who feels that way. Not even close. My childhood was pretty rotten, but what I went through is nothing compared to what other kids experienced or are experiencing right now. There are thousands of us. We don't ask for sympathy. We don't care about that.

At 46 years old, I'm well past the obsessing, the fear, and the self-pity. It's done. My tormentor is long since moldering in the ground and that's the way it should be. He and my past no longer have any power over me. In fact, I'm having fun. Life is good. My father-in-law IS one of the best people I've ever met and his son is just as wonderful. Better actually, but I'm biased. I'm grateful for both of them.

So, you ask, what the hell is this all about? Not much. Just remember, those of you who are tempted to canonize all fathers because your own is wonderful, that all fathers (or mothers for that matter) are NOT worthy of praise in any sense. If you find yourself tempted to yatter on about how there must be SOMETHING to adore about every father, save it. We've heard it all before. And you're wrong.

If you run across someone on either Father's or Mother's Day who is dancing around singing "Ding Dong the Witch is Dead" buy them a beer and count your lucky stars that you don't have cause to do the same. If you know someone who isn't participating, or is saying the equivalent of "Bah, humbug" leave them alone. Don't make excuses. Don't brag. Don't try and talk them into anything. Accept that not everyone had your experience and leave them alone.

For those of us who are going to get increasingly queasy as we get closer to the holiday - it's just fine to feel that way. Shut off the television when the treacly movies come on. Throw out the newspaper when the poetry about Dad contest finalists are published. Make barfing noises when radio shows featuring the three hairball choker Tributes to Daddy are on the radio. Those of you who go to church can skip it that day without guilt.

It's all right. You aren't alone. In fact, you're still standing, which means you won. Never forget that.